“If not macaroni then a cheeseburger,” Dommie is instructing Juan. “Medium rare. Go tell her, okay? And if she asks about the bang she heard, tell her it was you or Jack that accidentally broke the PC. Okay?”
“No problem,” Juan says.
“Don’t worry, she won’t do nuthin’.”
“Thanks for your help,” I tell the kid. “Have fun at the ball game.”
“I’m taking a lobster net for foul balls,” Dommie says brightly. “If I catch one I’m signing Mike Piazza’s name and selling it for big bucks on eBay.”
“Thattaboy.” I flash him a thumbs-up.
Emma is worried about using Evan, but he’s perfect: He looks exactly like a delivery boy, guileless and spacey. After a short strategy session I gave him twenty bucks and dispatched him to Cleo’s favorite gourmet deli for subs and pasta. He should be calling from her place within the hour. Meanwhile I studiously listen to the CDs that Dommie made from the mystery hard drive.
Jimmy Stoma’s unfinished opus.
The songs are in strands, but I can almost imagine how they’re supposed to sound when woven together. For a fan it’s strange to come upon a bare guitar track or a detached piano; free-floating background harmonies—I’m betting it’s the lovely Ajax and Maria, whom I met at the funeral; or Jimmy himself taking three or four unaccompanied passes at the lyrics. Astoundingly, all those years of shrieking like a banshee with the Slut Puppies didn’t shred his vocal cords. He sounds good on these recordings.
At first I wasn’t looking forward to sitting through hours of raw cuts, but it’s been interesting to hear the songs evolve—and instructive. On an early vocal of “Cindy’s Oyster” (filed as V4oystio), Jimmy began the third verse this way:
The girl who saved her pearl for me
Showed it to the world on MTV…
Obviously a sly dig at his young bride, the former Cynthia Jane Zigler. In a subsequent version Jimmy dropped the caustic pose in favor of a leer:
The girl who saved her pearl for me
Keeps it shiny between her knees…
And by the last cut of the song (Vyoystioall), the line had been altered once more:
The girl who saved her pearl for me
Keeps it hidden in a cold black sea…
He was no Robert Zimmerman, but James Bradley Stomarti knew how to have fun with lyrics. It’s the only reference to Cleo Rio that I’ve heard so far on any of the discs. While she might not have liked the song, I doubt she would have been moved to murder Jimmy and then Jay Burns in order to gain possession of the recording.
Yet, as young Loreal so sagely observed, it’s the music business. Maybe Cleo is a paranoid, egomaniacal kook. Maybe she couldn’t bear the idea of seeing a snarky column item pegging her as the inspiration for “Cindy’s Oyster.” Or maybe she couldn’t stand the thought of her husband getting pop ink at her expense.
These theories rest on several wobbly assumptions: one, that Cleo heard the song; two, that she got the point of the song; three, that she believed Jimmy would actually finish it; and, four, that a legitimate record label would put it out.
Unfortunately, “Cindy’s Oyster” is the closest thing to a motive I’ve found, which is to say that the story of Jimmy Stoma’s death is a long way from making the newspaper.
Now the phone is ringing and I snatch at it, expecting Evan on the other end.
“Has he called in yet? Is he okay?” It’s Emma, the mother hen.
“Not yet. But I’m sure he’s all right.”
“Jack, I don’t like this. I’m coming over.”
“Fine, but don’t be shocked if the place is crawling with strumpets and wenches.”
“I’m serious. If anything happens to him—”
“Bring whipped cream,” I tell her. “And an English saddle.”
Like many police departments, our sheriff’s office tapes all incoming calls, even those on non-emergency lines. In Florida such tapes are a public record, which means access must be provided upon request to any member of the unwashed citizenry, including news reporters. The quality of such tapes is uniformly awful, and sure enough, Janet’s alleged phone call to the Beckerville substation sounded like it came from a Ukrainian coal mine. The voice seemed to belong to a woman, but I couldn’t have told you whether it was Janet Thrush, Cleo Rio or Margaret Thatcher. Between fuzz-pops and crackles the voice can be heard saying not to worry about the commotion at her house—her drunken boyfriend wigged out, nobody got hurt and things are under control.